


Plump

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College, Alternate Universe – Always-a-girl, Alternate Universe – High School, Bottom Jensen, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fingering, Hurt/Comfort, Light Dom/sub, Medical Kink, Medical Play, Mentions of Menstruation, Oral Sex, Overstimulation, Pain, Top Jared, Underage Sex, always-a-girl!Jensen - Freeform, pumping, pussy pumping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-15
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-14 11:36:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18475441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: Jensen needs to be pumped and swollen all the time, now. Jared is all too happy to oblige.





	Plump

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anonymous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anonymous/gifts).



> **A/N:** Written for the September 2015 / Round 3 of **[SPN Masquerade](https://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com)** for this [prompt](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/6017.html?thread=1867905#t186790) which went thusly: _REQUEST: Jared/girl!Jensen, pussy pumping, possible D/s Keeping Jenny all pumped and swollen is an all-the-time thing now (up to author who and how it was instigated). She likes the weight of it, the sensitivity, how tight she feels when Jared fucks her. She even likes how loose she feels/looks when she wakes up and the swelling has gone down. Would love it if this looked at how she's impacted doing normal things - her panties don't cover her properly, sometimes she's just TOO sensitive, walking and sitting can be maddening... All other kinks and scenarios welcome, especially d/s, other body mods, etc._
> 
> The beginning was published to the **[SPN Masquerade](http://spn-masquerade.livejournal.com/6017.html?thread=1890689#t1890689)** LJ page on September 19, 2015 as a comment-fic but unfortunately life impeded and I never got a chance to properly finish and upload until today. I hope the Anonymous OP is still around – OP, I enjoyed writing for this prompt! I hope this is somewhere in the ballpark of what you wanted even though I didn’t quite follow the prompt.
> 
> A million thanks to **[BlindSwandive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlindSwandive)** handholding, brainstorming, encouraging, and beta’ing this mess that has been sitting on my hard drive since 2015. She has read and reread this thing more times than I can count and lavished all the love on it.

“ _Please_ ,” Jensen whines from beneath him, her hips twitching, hands clenching at the tan-and-navy striped comforter covering the dorm-issued mattress. She squirms, draws up her legs and plants her feet flat against the towel spread beneath her in preparation for this. Jared is glad he splurged on the two-inch memory foam mattress topper when he plants his hands on either side of her and kisses her navel. He licks a swipe across her flesh, swirls his tongue into her belly button, and then slides it further down, stopping short of her pubes. He’s gladder still when she keens with desperate need that he’d taken advantage of some of the perks offered to med students at the university — benefits like single rooms with no roommate to walk in on them, although, granted, said room is little larger than a closet and the walls are paper-thin. “Please, Jared,” she repeats, softer this time, as though the thought about the walls had occurred to her too, butterflying her bent legs even wider, the outside of her thighs pressing down against the terrycloth, exposing and opening her sex to him like some kind of damn flower. 

She’d come straight from school, dropping her backpack from her shoulder to the floor and clawing at her clothes before he’d even shut the door. Her hands had been shaking, her teenage body — still small-framed and rectangular, her curves just starting to make their presence known, so unlike the girls his own age — shuddering with hunger, adrenaline, and overstimulation. He’d gone to her, taking over undoing the long row of tiny clear plastic buttons to her cotton blouse, and slid the bleach-white, starchy oxford fabric off her shoulders. The material had snagged, the rough underside of the embroidered maroon-and-gray emblem of the preparatory high school she attends during the day catching on her bra, coarse threads scratching her shoulder. He’d wrapped long arms around her, feeling the cooling, tacky sweat drying on her skin as she shivered. _She must’ve run_. It hurt him to see her so undone, in such pain. 

“Help me,” she’d murmured into the shoulder of his royal blue American Eagle t-shirt, tucking her nose against his throat as he curled protectively around her, and that’d been all it’d taken. He’d unhooked her bra and unbuttoned, unwrapped the plaid gray-and-maroon kilt from her waist, letting both drop in a pool of fabric on the laminate floor, and lifted her into his arms. Chest-to-chest, he carried her to the bed, her long legs entwined around his waist like that of a child, the arc of her bowlegs locking around him. She hadn’t even had time to even try rubbing herself against his shirt before he’d set her down. She immediately laid on her back, splaying herself open for him, revealing the wrinkled white wings of her pad wrapped around the underside of her underwear. “It hurts,” she’d said as she stretched her body. She drew her legs up higher, scrunching her torso down as though to bear stool. “Jar- _ed_.” His name had been a plea. 

He hooked his fingers in the elastic waistband of her underwear and tugged it down to her ankles. The movement of pressing her legs together, straightening them, makes her grunt in frustration. There is no blood on the pad beneath, just the faintest streak of brown; her menstrual cycle must’ve ended sometime in the past forty-eight hours. He surveys her, all alabaster skin spattered with freckles. She rubs her heels against her ankles, pushing the underwear off the bed, and bends her knees, allowing her legs to fall open, wider still because of the curve of her thighs. The folds of her vestibule are reddened and puffy, irritated from wearing pads for the past seven days — the length of time since she’d last come to him — but she looked more normal than she had all month. 

“You really should change pads more often. Or else switch to those all-natural organic ones,” Jared says, reaching down to finger her, following the oval ridge of her labia minora.

“Yes, Doctor Padalecki,” she responds dutifully. She looks at him from beneath long eyelashes and smiles at him. She reaches down, fingers herself, spreading and scratching either side of her urethral opening.

 _Jensen’s so sensitive_ , he thinks, entwining her fingers with his and bringing her hand back to her side. He doesn’t let go of her hand, his touch a gentle, firm reminder of the parameters of their agreement. He didn’t know how she could stand it sometimes. That’d been the reason he’d refused to fuck her or attach her to the pump while she was menstruating; her body needed the rest, even when she didn’t think it did. He brings his lips to her inflamed flesh, nuzzling the coarse cinnamon-colored curls of her pubic hair. The ginger color was always a surprise, no matter how many times he’s seen it. It’s a stark contrast to her dirty-blond, androgynous pixie-bordering-on-buzz cut.

He laps at her folds, little kitten-licks with the tip of his tongue, inhaling the slight musk of her sex. She shudders, cants closer to his face, but doesn’t make a sound or move her hands or feet. It’s one of their rules. _Seven days. No wonder Jensen’s a mess_ , he thinks as he sucks gently at her clitoris glans. She gasps, arches her back with a keen. She’s still breathing heavily as he slides back up her lean length, holding up his weight in a one-handed pushup. Her eyes are unfocused, dazed. He reaches out, cups her cheek. “Hello there, beautiful,” he says. She blinks at him blearily and her lips, plump and cupid-bowed, the color and fullness of a ripe wild strawberry part open as she exhales, her breath smelling faintly of the pizza she must’ve had for lunch. Her mouth makes him think of one of the silver screen goddesses from that film history class he took way back in undergrad six years ago — Monroe, maybe, or Bardot. _Definitely Bardot, with those lips_ , he thinks, bending his neck and kissing her on the mouth, sliding in and swirling his tongue around hers. Jensen is only seventeen and still a junior in high school; he’s twenty-four and in his second year of medical school. He knows it’s nine kinds of wrong what they’re doing, that he’s skating right at the edge of age-of-consent, but she’s so different from any of the other girls he’s met — mature, sexy, self-assured, even compared to the ones who are supposed to be in his league, like Adrianne from his OB/GYN class. He kisses Jensen again, suckling at her lower lip as he reaches down between her splayed legs with his hand, the other still holding his weight off her. He rims her vaginal entrance with the tip of his index finger and dips it inside her warmth. She gasps as he slides his finger around inside her, stretching her, first with one finger, then two. Her muscle slackens and dampens. He pushes up, feeling for her clitoris. There’s a sharp bitten-off sound, too close to pain for his liking, and he pulls his hand away. His fingers are slick with her discharge. 

She blinks owlishly at him, her eyes glazed and muzzy with want. She smiles. “Please,” she breathes, she shifts her feet on the towel, bringing her knees higher and then opening them wider. He brings his sticky fingers to her lips, lets her taste their saltiness before reaching behind the pillow for the pump and a bottle of lubricant. 

He holds up the small device that gives her such pleasure. “Remember the safeword?” 

She nods, her hair sticking up behind her with the motion but doesn’t speak the word, not wanting him to mistake it for deliberate use. 

“Swear you’ll use it the second you need it,” he commands, pushing up the cap to the lube with one thumb and squeezes a generous dollop on her. He spreads it liberally. It’s one of his rules and he allows the threat of a full-stop hang between them. This isn’t about him; it’s about her and her needs. He takes a breath, forces himself into a more clinical mindset. 

“Yes,” she says, a verbal consent. 

Jared looks at the device in his hand. It’s deceptively simple, based on the same premise of cupping in massage — its purpose to bring the bloodflow to the surface. He fits the rigid silicone cup over her labia majora. 

“You sure you don’t need to go?” he asks in afterthought. 

She shakes her head, clenches her fingers in the soft puffiness of the comforter. 

“Do it.” Her voice has the steel edge of command. 

He kisses her again, this time deeper, and swirls his tongue around hers in the soft warmth of her mouth as he presses the translucent pink rubber harder against her. He holds the cup in place with one hand while the other follows the thin tube and wraps around the attached bulb. He squeezes the bulb once, twice, thrice, pausing between each pump of the suction to monitor Jensen’s expression, the development through the cloudy transparency of the device. 

He squeezes the bulb twice more and flesh is pressing up and out against the rubber, the outer lips peeling back as the inside plumps full, protruding beyond the entrance, wanting to fill the vacuum. The pink sheen of the pump makes it look even more like a rosebud. Jensen pants, whines with pleasure, drawing his attention back to her face, her body. Sweat pearls along her hairline, drips down her temples, cheeks, and off her jaw to her neck. Her body is taut, tense and bowed and practically vibrating with the twin pressures of arousal and steel control. She alternately trembles and stills with the exertion of keeping control over her muscles. Her breasts — the peaked, puckered areolas and nipples are dark against pale flesh, like the cherry on a _Zeppole_ — and belly glisten with a sheen of slick. Sweat lathers her arms, the inside of her thighs, and makes her limbs shine. She moans, low and lusty, face thrown back and contorted in blissful pleasure, as her hips twitch and buck beyond her control, feet never leaving the mattress, knees still pressed away from him. He gives the bulb another pump, just one this time, and she lets out a sharp high sound in the back of her throat. There’s a note of pain, there, too. He snaps his gaze to the cup and sees she’s flush and red against the silicone, filling the cup completely. He stops, holds it in place for long, slow seconds. Jensen’s gasping, her perspiring sides heaving as she struggles to stay still.

“Off,” she complains, her voice thick and dazed. It’s not their safeword so he doesn’t move. “Off,” she repeats and she sounds lost and confused. Her gaze is unfocused, roving from the ceiling to the wall and back, not settling on anything for longer than a couple of seconds and he realizes she’s gone too far into her head even know if she’s coming or going. Jared leans down, kisses her deeply as he thumbs the catch to the release valve and there’s a slight pop as the suction releases. Jensen lets out a single, sharp cry as it slides off the swollen flesh. He soothes her with kisses and soft murmurings, cradling her cheek with one palm and thumbing away sweat and tears from her long eyelashes. They are soft, spiky with moisture; she isn’t wearing mascara. He impulsively kisses her eyelids, nose, mouth, before dragging his lips down the length her throat, over her fluttering pulse and the sharp ridge of her collarbone to between her breasts, then further to her navel, quieting the tremors still jolting through her frame in regular waves. She hiccups sobbing breaths as her breathing evens and body goes slack. He doesn’t stop touching her, his hands roaming the length of her arms, her drying sweat making purchase sticky-slippery. He clings at her hips as his mouth settles on her prepuce, which always sounds like _precipice_ and feels the same when she grips his hair, and arches her back, thrusting her pelvis toward him, a high, desperate sound whining in her throat. 

She is fat and full and slick down below. Even though it is not trying to fill the vacuum anymore, the tissue is still plump, full of blood, and hasn’t begun to shrink down. He reaches out with a reverent finger and slips a tip into her vagina where it’s peeking out. It’s soft, heavy with tension. Jensen keens as he withdraws, bringing her knees to her hips and places her hands on the round, bony caps. He dips his head between her slippery, twitching thighs, his hand pressing against the inside of her right ankle, slipping down calf, thigh, before returning to her calf, helping Jensen keep her leg out of his way. He brings his mouth close to her and he feels her leg shudder as he swirls his tongue around the bud of her inner labia. She pulls at his hair and he eases off. He touches her and the skin is warm, heavy with the blood that had gathered there. He pushes in, gently, steadily, and Jensen is so, so _tight_ in a way that is more than muscle — it is fullness and swell and flesh. 

Jensen moans. “It’s so….” She trails off. “More.”

He kisses, sucks gently at the lurid, almost-transparent skin, careful not to let her drop too quickly from the arousal high. He feels her touch loosen and fall away. He pulls away, looks up at her teary face, and sees she’s got her eyes closed. Her breath is slow and lazy, her hands resting on her navel, fingers lax. He rises, back stiff, and is surprised, as he always is, how much time has passed. 

After a long moment, Jensen sits up, grimacing as her weight presses her pelvis into the towel, but she doesn’t let out a sound. She pales chalk-white for a moment, freckles standing out in stark dots as though they’d been drawn on, breathing slowly and heavily through her mouth, gasping in pain at the pressure. She slides her ass to the edge of the bed, spreads her legs and cants her hips back. It must help because her face loses its tension and color returns to her cheeks. She reaches down and touches her flush, protruding clit, a flicker of a wince when she feels its size. She pinches the flesh, tugs it carefully, rolling it between the balls of her fingertips. 

“Oh!” She breathes sharply, instinctively raising her ass from the bed, but doesn’t stand, and moans as she lowers herself, still rubbing herself. Suddenly, she cries out again and there’s wet beneath her. Her legs give out and she sits hard, her breath catching. She pulls away her hand and Jared doesn’t miss how it trembles before she wipes it on the towel beside her. The flesh peeking from behind her pubes is still swollen-shiny and lurid. He pants to think of the pain she must be in, grinds the heel of his palm against his own pubes and it refocuses him. He’s aware, then, that she’s breathing in time with him and steadies his own breathing. Her knees are bouncing hard, legs jittering up-and-down like a pair of pistons. She stands, staggers, and steadies herself as she reaches down to touch herself.

“Thank you,” she says with a soft smile that Jared is sure she reserves just for him. She spreads her legs wide and bends over to pick up her underwear. He sees a grimace twist her features for a brief moment as she straightens. She pads across the room on bare feet, her stance wide and loose, clearly too uncomfortable to walk normally, stopping periodically to pick up her bra, shirt, and skirt, granting him full view of her plumped sex each time. It makes him hard. She pretends not to notice, stealing peeks at him as she steps her foot through the opening of her underwear, slides it up almost to her knee, and slips the other leg through, tugging up the triangle of fabric to her waist. It’s pink, matronly, the kind that comes in packages of six. Even then, he can tell it barely covers her, bright edges of swollen sex peeking over the sides. 

She squats low, adjusting herself without using her hands and Jared palms himself. Firefighter-quick, she fastens the hooks of her bra in front of her and twists the strip of fabric around, simultaneously sliding her arms through the satin-looking straps, tugging the cups over her breasts, fitting the underwire beneath the nearly nonexistent peaks. She twirls, kisses him, pressing her pubes against the back of his hand, and twists away, blouse already on, deft fingers doing up the row of buttons. Before he’s blinked, she’s got her skirt around him and is saying “Same time tomorrow?” like the last couple of hours had just been an Algebra study session before turning to the full-length mirror hooked to the back of his door.

It’s never about him or getting him off — it’s about Jensen and her kink. And, if he’s being honest, the power dynamics of this whole scenario. Although, this close to his edge, he’s no longer sure who is controlling whom. For her it’s purely sexual, the arousal and the pleasure she gets from the device pulling at her, but for him it’s about the titillation. The sense of doing something so illicit. 

He leans against the wall, trying not to feel used as he watches Jensen smooth her hair with her hands, roam south over breasts, abs, to tug down her skirt, ensuring she is fully covered for the subway ride home. He thinks they might’ve overdone it a little this time. Her legs are set wider apart than when she’d first came, the curve of her bowlegs more pronounced, but nothing anyone would make note of unless they knew what they were looking at. She shifts on the balls of her feet as she hefts her pink backpack onto one shoulder. The movement makes her wince but she catches his eyes in the mirror and her expression smoothens out into a smile. She presses her hand between her thighs, groping at her swell through the wool of her kilt. She adjusts her panties and he wonders how they are even covering her, how the coarse pad must feel — abrasive, rough — against the tight, flushed, too-puffy flesh. He breathes slowly.

“What are you going to tell them?” 

She shrugs, surveys herself in the full-length mirror tacked to the backside of his closet, tugs down the back of her skirt again. “Same thing as always. I had field hockey practice. Remember? Field hockey in the fall, basketball in the winter, lacrosse in the spring, and all the gear stays in the locker room at school.” She grins. “Don’t _worry_. No one’s going to find out.” A pause. “Same time tomorrow?” she asks again.

He closes the gap between them, wrapping his hand possessively around her waist. The top of her head grazes his triceps and she’s not done growing. _At this rate, she’s going to be taller than Adrianne_. She tilts up her chin expectantly. He inclines his head, kisses her. “Same time tomorrow,” he agrees. 

She smiles, all overcorrected teeth, as she steps out of his hold. He doesn’t miss the way she presses her thighs together, rubs one leg against the other.

“Be safe,” he tells her, opening the door to the hallway. He knows he should escort her home, or at the very least walk her to the subway station and wait until she’s safely boarded on her train with the metal doors shut securely behind her, but he doesn’t. By unspoken agreement, she comes and goes alone and on her own accord. 

She rolls her eyes. “I’ll be fine.” A pause. “You worry too much. Nothing’s going to happen to me. I swear. I don’t need a bodyguard.” She raises herself on her tiptoes and kisses him, fingers pressing into his cheek, before pulling away and slipping through the door. He watches her progression down the hall; her stance wide and her gait waddled. He sees her bend backward against the wall, arching up from her pelvis, legs stretching, as she waits for the elevator. She shifts from foot to foot, seemingly impatient, and he knows the itch, the swell, of her most secret place must be maddening. As the elevator dings, doors opening, he sees her hand slip down her front, as though to tuck in her blouse more securely, but lower, and he comes in his pants as she steps out of sight.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments stress me out, but I adore kudos!


End file.
